by the way,

I know I make a lot of mention about my daughter being named for a Disney Princess.

But really,

really really,

she is not named for a Princess, after all.

She’s named for a Superhero.

Talk about magically delicious!

Boy, am I in trouble.

Thank you, J, for sending me a mobile photo of these,

well,

Princesses in a can,

snapped right in the soup aisle of the supermarket.

Not only do I get to ride my daughter,

or even wear my daughter,

but I now get to eat her, as well.

Now that’s mmmm mmmm good.

DWR

You may remember driving while pacifying and the new rules of the road that govern the streets of the Land of Mom.

Well, today, I realized a new rule: Driving While Rattling.

You see, my normally pleasant, giggly girl decided to scream during our entire 10 minute segue from Point A to Point B.

10 minutes may not seem like a lot…

but trust me, when there’s a baby screaming, it is. Oh, how it is.

In any case, it happened to be one of those drives during which I encountered many, many red lights.

I had to think on my feet,

or,

wheels,

as the case was,

and so, I had to assuage her upset by shaking a rattle,

relentlessly,

in her face.

What can I tell you, this girl loves her some pink sparkly rattle.

So, I was forced to Drive While Rattling,

which really meant that I was using my pinky and ring fingers to hold the pacifier in her mouth and my thumb and pointer finger to shake the rattle.

I won’t tell you what I was doing with my middle finger.

And, finally,

blissfully,

she stopped crying.

I cringed, as I saw a cop coming towards me, realizing that it was time for me to put both hands back on the steering wheel.

I braced myself for the ranting to resume,

when, miraculously,

I heard the shake shake shake of the pink, sparkly rattle beads.

Oh yeah.

I had forgotten.

My daughter knows how to shake her own rattle, now.

She can also (well, we’re talking most of the time, here) put her pacifier back into her own mouth.

Silly me.

I guess DWR is not, in fact, driving while rattling.

It’s Driving While Ridiculous.

That’s my name, don’t wear it out.

a hard day, with some glaze on top

I must say, today was a long day.

It started early,

it included some turbulence,

perhaps a few tears,

and a tired mommy at the end of it.

However, I feel blessed to have a husband who has shown me a light at the end of the tunnel…

…in the form of a surprise doughnut for dessert.

Sometimes a girl just needs to eat her feelings.

And with that,

I must go.

I have a hot shower to hop into,

and maybe,

just maybe,

some fingers to lick some glaze off of.

quack

So guess what?

I’m officially part of the waddle club, again!

No, I’m not pregnant.

Tricked ya,

didn’t I?

Seriously, though. This afternoon it hit me. I’m no more mobile today than I was when I was lugging a 7lb baby around in my uterus.

Why, you ask?

The infant car seat.

Trying to schlep a baby

(especially a baby who happens to be exceedingly tall. She’s a D.M.I.T: Diaper Model in Training) is not easy.

In fact, it’s pretty darn heavy.

And, because it takes me so long to get around,

I end up lingering in places

like random drugstore aisles

and buying things

like princess band-aids.

Like today, for instance. I could barely move, while trying to juggle the baby seat, a bottle of benadryl, (the aforementioned) band-aids and a few bags of pretzel m&ms. It must have been the extra bag of bite sized chocolate morsels that weighed me down.

I managed to cart the baby around the drug store, into the car and up the front stairs, feeling as if my arm was going to snap off into two, when I saw it:

A dainty, perfect white feather,

stretching gracefully on the ground before me.

And just like that, the load in my arms became a little lighter.

I found my strength.

My angels were there to help me to carry her home.

After all,

where would a waddler be without her feathers?

You know you have a girlie-girl when…(the Sunday evening edition)

….you overhear your husband, as he snuggles up in bed with the baby, saying the following:

“Do you want to have girl talk?

Whispers?

Pssss Pssss Pssss

Which boys do you like?

Oh yeah?

That’s soooooo cute. “

File this also under “You know you married an amazing man, who is an incredible father for your little girl.”

Is it still considered back-2-school shopping when it’s for an infant?

We all know that craziness is part of the parental territory.

I’ve always loved back to school shopping.

So, I couldn’t resist.

Take a little peek…

So, the above is just a small glimpse of the back2schlgear I’m currently washing/drying/folding/arranging in a certain lil lady’s nursery.

Call me crazy.

Call my daughter “Fashionista-in-training”

And do you also remember the specific breed of craziness, reserved for those people of the great-grandparent kind?

Yeah, these were all Mommom.

She may not have school to go to, but this little girl will certainly be

spitting up on herself

pooping in her pants

strolled around the neighborhood in style.

you know you have a girlie-girl when…(the Sunday afternoon edition)

…you ask your husband to bring down the fluffy, pink doggy and he asks, “which one?”

…you have the following conversation:

Me: “Look at her new pink tutu!”

Husband: “She has a lot of pink tutus.”

Me: “Does she need another pink tutu?”

Husband: “She is a tutu baby!”

Me: “So, what do you think?”

Husband “I don’t know put it in the Enchanted Garden nook and we’ll think about it.”

…when husband, on his way down to do the laundry, asks, “do you want me to wash the whites first, or the pinks?”

Not the whites or colors, mind you. Just whites or pinks.

Mommy’s Law:

(n.) An adage or maxim that states that as soon as one thinks that everything is going wonderfully, something must occur to knock one down a peg, or two. 

For instance, take this morning:

Our day started out beautifully. 

I woke up early, got dressed and set off for a morning walk to our favorite bagel shop, 

with my husband, parents, the baby, Lola and Ziggy. 

We enjoyed a glorious stroll in the sunshine, 

stopping to chat with baby-admirers, 

puppy-lovers, 

and yentas, alike. 

On our way back, bagels in hand, we came across a large, burly man with his small, white dog. 

“Aww, that looks like a sweet dog.” My dad said. 

To be PC, this dog did not look normal. Her tail was between her legs, and she seems skittish. 

Before I could  admonish my father or warn my husband, the husband gave some slack to Lola’s leash, allowing her to sniff the white puppy, 

who promptly dropped to the ground and peed on the pavement. I told you. Not normal. Well, before Lola could get any closer to AbbyNormal, we were interrupted by a piercing scream from above. 

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Shouted a little boy, who came running down from a balcony and onto the street where we stood.

“She has GIRARDIA!!! It is CONGTAGIOUS!!! To  ANIMALS!!! And HUMANS!!!!!”

The man with the dog, who was seemingly the boy’s father, scratched his large (my head all full of stuffin’) noggin and said, “Uhhhhhhhh guhhhhh guhhhhh I don’t uhhhhh think it’s contagious guhhhhh.” What grown man lets their dog get near a tiny Yorkshire Terrier Princess dog who obviously belongs to a tiny Princess baby? I not-so-quietly called him a buffoon (or something not-s0-PC) and we strolled along. 

Except, of course,  I freaked out. 

My parents joked about how long it would take for me to grab the computer to start Google-ing Girardia. 

Little did they know I had already started to research it from my husband’s cell phone. 

I was not messing around. 

We walked, 

they laughed, 

I scoured the internet. 

The answers I found online should have assuaged my fears, but, of course, they didn’t, 

so as we continued to walk, 

(and continued to impersonate the little boy, who we believe must have been traumatized by his dog’s diagnosis, for his reaction was clearly the result of some pent up Girardia-related-issues) 

I decided to give our Vet a little early Saturday morning ring. 

They assured me that Girardia could not, in fact, be transmitted through sniffing. 

I felt much (not all. definitely not all.) better, 

and joined in on the impersonations. 

Seriously. Say it out loud. Try it in slow motion. “NOOOOOOOO!!! SHE HAS GIRAAAAARRRDDDIIIIAAAA!!!”

It was just too much. 

I made sure to scold my dad, telling him that he was a bad judge of dog character. 

Of course, this caused another eruption of laughter, 

at my expense. 

It’s always at my expense. 

They may say I’m a crazy-person. But I’m not the only one. The little boy from the balcony will join me. And the world will live as one. 

 

morning, sunshine.

This morning, not too long after the sun rose in the sky,

I crept into my parents’ bedroom, and placed the baby in bed, nestled in between her Bubbie and Zayde Bear.

From my room I can hear giggles and squeals escaping from the doorway,

“You are my Sunshine”,

an impeccable Grover impersonation,

and more “I love you”s than I can count,

wafting through the hall.

This is lovely.

This is bright.

This is what I used to do with my grandparents.

This is what life is all about.

Mommy’s got a question for ya.

It’s about freckles.

You see, this summer has been a bit more indoorsy  than usual.

That’s what you get when you mix a new baby + excessive excessive heat warnings + my husband’s skin tone, which I would describe as beige (OK, just off-white, but I’m being kind.)

And so, my normal sprinkling of freckles have been kept at bay.

That is, until last weekend, when oh! Hi! There you are! Where’ve you been, freckles, dear?

I should tell you, I’m a bit into freckles.

My sister’s especially.

She has a very unique,

very amazing, as far as I’m concerned,

freckle on her nose,

and I just loooooooove that little tan dot.

When we were little, I would make deals with her, just to get the chance to rub her freckle.

To me, it was magic.

And so, it was my pleasure to hand her the remote, wait on her hand and foot, and let her sit next to my mom at dinner every night for a week, just so I could lay my hands on that little freckle.

She has often threatened a freckle-ectomy.

I won’t let it happen.

My mom told her it was where the angels kissed her face when she was born.

That freckle is staying.

Anyway, today, as I looked down at my speckled, freckly arms,

and then over at my milky white little angel-face,

(the baby, not the husband. Although he’s a milky white little angel face, as well.)

I started to wonder…

when do people get freckles?

Do they just pop up overnight?

Dot they slowly darken into little skin dots?

Weird, right?

Well, this isn’t one of those rhetorical questions….I’m really, truly asking. So, if you have any insight into this, please let me know.

If you provide me with any valuable information

I shall reward you by giving you 3 rubs of my sister’s freckle.

Spottedly Yours,

Freckle Face